Thief
by Dyscord
Summary: Oneshot, season 1. The evening after Will and Allan blurt out their feelings for Djaq, Allan retreats to a bar to ponder love, friendship, and the overpricing of ale.


Hello everyone! This is my latest random oneshot, concerning Allan's feelings for Djaq. It is set in Season 1, the evening after Will and Allan have their simultaneous revelation "I think I love/like her" Hope you enjoy!

Thief

Times are hard. This is no secret. Tradesmen of all kinds cut corners to survive, steal and cheat when they have to simply to stay afloat. Be you carpenter, blacksmith, or cooper, work is hard and scarce in times like these.

The same is not true, however, of innkeepers. Even in the driest times, beer still wets the lips of hungry men. This is because ale and wine, to the poor man, are the only two cures for a miserable life, however temporary the effects may be. Hard work and careful saving cannot lift his burden, so why not free his coin on a few blissful hours of oblivion? It is this bitter truth which filled the Trip to Jerusalem Inn on a gray and fruitless evening in Locksley village, where infamous trickster Allan-A-Dale threw two grubby brown coins onto the countertop and gestured to the skinny little barmaid for a pint.

When it arrived, Allan wrinkled his nose in distaste, glancing down at the thin foam and feeling a rare pang of homesickness. The Trip to Jerusalem Inn was just not the same as the old Dog and Duck at home in Rochdale, where the ale was always strong and the patrons always gullible. The ale here was sour, watered down, and he strongly suspected they weighted the mugs. Charging tuppence for it was simply daylight robbery, and Allan-A-Dale knew daylight robbery.

The problem with being in Robin Hood's gang, he reflected sullenly, was you hardly knew anyone outside the gang. Not well, anyway. Usually this wasn't a problem for the loud-laughing, fast-talking Allan who could slip himself into anyone's social circle (their purse, too, if he'd a mind to) at a moment's notice. Tonight, however, he was feeling uncharacteristically melancholy, and didn't much feel up to his usual song and dance. Tonight, he would much have preferred a quiet pint and conversation with his mate Will.

At the thought of Will, Allan's stomach gave a twist of – what was it? Guilt? Fear? Resentment? All three? He shook his head gently, a half smile tweaking the corner of his mouth. Nah, Will's all right, he said to himself. To be honest, of all the members of the gang, Will was the one Allan had bonded with the most, and he missed his company at the bar. But after today, perhaps it was better to have some time alone, to clear his head.

_I think I love her! _Will's voice echoed around Allan's head, and he let out a light sigh. _Well… good for him, _He thought guiltily_. He's a good lad, and she's a… she's a fantastic woman. I'm happy for them, really happy. It's just…_

Just what? He couldn't put his finger on it. What was it about the whole business that gnawed at him so? He took a slow, thoughtful pull on his ale and flicked the foam off his upper lip.

A round-faced man tumbled into the stool next to him and called for ale. Allan scrutinized him subtly from the corner of his eye. He was young, no older than twenty, with sandy hair and a lightly tanned complexion. He had an undeniable boyishness about him, a kind of naïve charm radiating from his sweetly innocent eyes. He grinned ear to ear, his cheeks dimpled and round, giving him an almost childlike appearance.

Allan wasn't much interested in him, (except as a possible pickpocketing mark) and turned back to his ale, but the sandy-haired man turned his unquenchable smile towards him and clapped him on the shoulder. "You're running low, friend!" he nodded toward's Allan's almost empty tankard. "Another round, on me!"

Allan found the stranger's cheerful enthusiasm truly irritating, but free ale is free ale, and he nodded with a small smile. They toasted together, and the lad introduced himself as Samuel. Allan hesitated before giving his own name, but it would be difficult to find a man who looked less like one of the Sheriff's spies. It was hard to distrust a man whose smile threatened to split his face in two.

"Oh, Allan," Samuel sighed like a schoolboy, having drained half his tankard. "You see before you a man in love…"

_Great_, thought Allan sullenly, _A bloody poet_.

"Her name is Margaret," Samuel continued, oblivious to Allan's distaste. He stared into the air as though seeing her face before him. "Eyes as blue as the sky itself and hair like the sun which hangs in it. Oh, she can light up a room with just the twinkle in her eye…"

Resisting the urge to make throwing-up noises, Allan merely smirked into his tankard. "Good looking bird, is she?" he asked unnecessarily. Samuel looked a little irked to hear his radiant beauty called a 'bird', but he didn't seem to have a bad-tempered bone in his body. He nodded.

"Aye," he agreed. "And she has consented to court me." He ran his hand through his hair in a self-satisfied sort of way.

"Good luck, mate," Allan laughed. "She's got you hooked. No escape for you now!"

Samuel's blissful smile soured only slightly. "I take it you don't much care for love?"

Allan shrugged. "I like women well enough for a night or two. Just don't go in for any of that romance stuff," He drained his tankard and gestured to the serving wench for another, a little uncomfortable at the direction the conversation was taking.

"You've never had your heart stolen away?" Samuel asked again, his voice holding an edge of pity that Allan didn't quite care for.

"Listen, Sam, there's not a man or woman alive fast enough to steal a thing from me, got it?" He played the rogue card, which usually afforded him some measure of respect in taverns like these. It wasn't his intention to be rude, but Samuel was getting on his nerves. Any other night he might have simply laughed at the younger man's lovesick drivel, but tonight it was the very last thing he wanted to hear.

Samuel didn't seem offended, but instead appeared to be studying him closely. "Surely there's been some woman who's held your attention for more than a night," he said incredulously. Allan shrugged, considering it. Not since childhood had he formed any lasting relationships with women, and all those he'd taken a liking to when he was young were back in Rochdale, probably married off by now.

Then, of course, there was Djaq.

"Yeah, I guess there is," he said quietly, staring down into his drink.

"What's she like?" prompted Samuel gently. "Beautiful?"

Allan thought about it. "No," he said simply. He couldn't honestly say he found Djaq's stubborn jaw and close-cropped hair to be truly attractive. She tried so hard to be a man, it was almost strange thinking of her that way. Only her eyes were… well, he liked her eyes.

He suddenly realized that Samuel was watching him expectantly, and Allan shrugged, a slightly embarrassed little laugh escaping his lips. "She's… funny," he hazarded. He thought about it. "Actually, she's really funny. Not even Will can make me laugh like her, and he's my best mate." The mention of Will brought forth a sharp jab of guilt in his stomach, remembering what he'd said that morning. He felt like he should stop, change the subject, but Samuel had coaxed out a reluctant part of him that had been aching to talk. After all, there are things you can tell a stranger that you can never tell anyone else. And something about Samuel was so innocent, so stupidly honest, he was easy to talk to.

"I like her hands," he said softly. "Clever little fingers that can fix anything. She… when I'm hurt, she's usually the one to take care of it and she's… gentle. That's not to say she's not tough," he added stoutly, as though Sam had made the comment. "She is, she's tough as any man. She's just… gentle, underneath it all."

Samuel was smiling knowingly. "For a man who scorns love, you sure talk like someone in it."

For an instant, Allan was angry at the man for trying to tell him how he felt. Who did he think he was? A second later he was sick with guilt. He stood up suddenly, struck by the impulse to run, shrugged uncomfortably and threw two copper coins on the counter to pay for his drink.

"Listen, Sam, good luck with Margaret," he said, and was surprised to realize he really meant it. "I should really be… getting back…" The younger man smiled and nodded his head in farewell.

They would never meet again, never again speak, and quickly forgot one another's names and the specifics of their conversation. It was one of those chance meetings Fate likes to organize, an elucidation which Allan wasn't sure whether he was grateful for or not. However little he would remember of Samuel in later years, some small voice in the back of his mind had been awakened, some inner knowledge unearthed and examined, and that was the true gift of the stranger.

And home he walked, home to a camp of cold nights and warm company. It was long past dusk when returned to find his camp littered with secrets, a nervous, unfamiliar territory where unspoken thoughts hung in the air like mist.


End file.
